


I'll Prove You Wrong

by Sagittae



Series: Sleepy Hollow Alternate Universe Prompts [6]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, i dont know haha, injured!fic, whump abbie is just my thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sagittae/pseuds/Sagittae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which tea and baseball somehow becomes the topic of discussion. Ichabod figures that anything goes when trying to keep someone alive.</p><p>
  <strong>[Stuck in an accident together AU]</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Prove You Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> **And bonus if someone is injured.**
> 
> This became somewhat of a monster drabble, oops. I had started writing it with the 600-700 word count in mind. Yeah, that didn't happen... I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but let me know what you think! It's 4 AM so I'm just gonna leave this here...

When the day first began, all he wanted was to return to his home and sit by his hearth, and maybe even have a cup of tea as he did. Now, all Ichabod could feel was the chill and cold seeping into his skin, his bones, as he attempted to pry open his eyes. He wasn’t surprised when all he could see was darkness. He coughed painfully, his ribs aching as he did. The frigid air did not help to soothe his lungs either.

“Hello?” A voice wheezed. It was a woman.

“Miss,” Ichabod coughed again. “Are you all right?”

Her voice was quiet, but strong, “Yeah.” She paused and then asked, “What about you?”

“It appears I have injured my ribs,” he tried to shift. “And my entire left side seems to be pinned down by an unknown force.”

She managed to sound a bit sheepish, “That would be me. I fell on top of you; sorry about that… You always talk like that?”

Ichabod blinked. Of all the things to ask about in their predicament, this woman wanted to know about his speech patterns? She could have asked about anything, his name, whether or not he could free himself, _anything_. And despite the fact that he found her strange, and even stranger in their situation, he answered, “Yes. I do.”

She let out a small puff of laughter, but it fell flat, “Nice. You got a name, English?”

 _There_ was the logical question, “My name is Ichabod Crane.”

“I’m Abigail Mills.” The woman said shortly before adding, “But just call me Abbie. Everyone does.”

“Miss Mills… Do you have an idea as to how we came to be in this position?” Ichabod inquired, only realizing how cold it was until he saw the white cloud come from his lips.

Abbie sniffed, “Uh, yeah. Ice on the streets doesn’t really help cars much and I don’t know if you remember, but we were both on a bus… It went off the road, rolled over a few times, I think, and now we’re here. We were the only two passengers besides the driver, but he got out and said he was going to try and call for help…”

“How long ago was that?”

“About thirty minutes ago.”

Ichabod thought that was curious. If the driver was able to leave, surely there was an exit Abbie could take as well. Why would she stay? “I see,” he responded. “Perhaps we could help him. I simply need to remove my arm from beneath you,” Ichabod tugged on his limb, twisting it from below woman’s warm backside.

“No, wait--!” And then she cried out in pain, and the sound of it echoed off the walls of the small space. Ichabod stopped moving his arm and instead turned his head as far as he could towards the woman’s still form. Her jagged breaths were the only thing that could be heard now. She croaked, “Just… Just don’t move for a bit, okay?”

“Miss Mills, are you-,” and then he saw her clearly for the first time.

Her dark skin seemed pale, her lips cracked and her beautiful eyes were glazed. Abbie’s face had a small trail of blood running down the side of her cheek, its crimson color almost looking black in the dim light of the broken bus. But that was not the most worrying of her wounds, for in her abdomen was a thin, short metal rod, surely part of the upturned vehicle. The point of it shined with a dark substance as it prodded from her mid-section after having gone straight through her.

“Miss-,” was all he was able to choke out. Ichabod had realized then. The warmth he felt from Abbie Mills was not from the heat of her skin, but from her blood.

* * *

“I don’t think he made it,” Abbie’s small voice drifted to his ears.

Ichabod turned his head towards her, “Why do you say that?”

“He was bleeding pretty badly from his head. It was probably a concussion. And I told him not to go…”

“I’m certain that he is fine, Miss Mills,” he tried to reassure her, to comfort her, because while he had his own injuries, he was not the one with a rod in his stomach. “It has only been around forty minutes, yes?”

“Miss Mills?” Again, nothing. “Miss Mills!” He yelled a bit more urgently.

“’m all right,” she mumbled. “I’m all right.”

“Please, Miss Mills, you must stay awake,” Ichabod tried to calm the frantic beating of his heart. “Help will be on its way, but you must hold fast.”

“’kay… Hey, Crane?” She coughed harshly. Ichabod winced. “Crane?”

“Yes?” He replied softly.

Abbie asked, “It’s getting really hard to keep my eyes open. Talk to me. Please.”

Ichabod reached over and grabbed the woman’s freezing hand with his own, rubbing his thumb along her icy skin. “Of course.”

And so, he did. He told her about his recent divorce with his wife and how he had just taken up a job a local college to teach History (with an extra emphasis on the Revolutionary War). He told her about how he loved to go to war reenactments and how he had slowly come to love baseball and that he was saddened by the fact that winter had caused the cancellation of any upcoming games in Sleepy Hollow. Finally, he let her know about his plans when he got back to his warm cabin, how he would curl up by the fire with a good book and some of his freshly made tea.

“It’s something I’ve brought with me from England,” Ichabod informed.

“I’m not a huge fan of tea,” and he could practically hear the way she was wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“Well,” he smiled to himself, even though he knew she would not be able to see the amusement playing out across his features. “I believe I can change your mind.”

“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

“Crane,” he heard her gasp.

“Yes, Miss Mills?” Ichabod answered, staring up at the broken windows on the side of the bus. Small flakes of snow drifted in through the cracks in the glass.

“I’m gonna move.”

“Miss Mills, surely you cannot--.”

“ _I’m going to move_ ,” she spoke more forcefully, with pain laced in every word. “I’m going to move and then you’re going to get yourself out. All right?”

It had been an hour and a half and their driver still hadn’t returned with aid. Ichabod suspected the worst, but of course, he didn’t express these thoughts to his companion. “I will not leave you here, Miss--.”

“You _have to_ ,” she breathed. “If someone’s going to get out of this, it’s gonna be you.”

Ichabod gripped her hand, “You will survive this, we _both_ will. Once help gets here they shall free us together.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crane,” Abbie squeezed his hand in return. “My abdomen’s what’s hurt, not my head. I can still tell how long it’s been. Help isn’t coming.”

Her words sat in the air like icicles hanging from the ceiling. Was he aware of their situation? Of course. The likelihood of a rescue at this point was miniscule, and even if someone did get to them in time, there was no guarantee Abbie would even make it to the hospital. Ichabod grimaced at the thought of his new friend losing breath, her heart stopping, and closed his eyes only to have them snap open at the sound of the woman’s cries of agony.

Abbie was pulling herself up and pushing herself off of the metal bar. Blood was leaking down the rod slowly, spilling from the wound.

Ichabod held her hand tightly, “What are you doing?!”

She hissed loudly between clenched teeth, “Getting you out of here!” Her yells turned into screams as she went on. The tip of the bar could no longer be seen. “Promise me you’ll leave once you can.”

“No, I cannot--!”

“Promise me!” Abbie growled, eyes flashing dangerously. He would not win.

Quietly, he nodded, “I promise you.”

She gave him a small, sad smile before yanking herself from the metal and collapsing on her side, blood pooling quickly around her. She did not speak or respond to his calls. He saw her curl in on herself, as if she planned to sleep in the red liquid around her.

 _No,_ he thought, getting to his knees shakily.

That would not happen.

* * *

Abbie didn’t know what happened after that. She was sure she was dead from the minute she started pulling her body off of the rod; the pain should have killed her. Or at least it _felt_ like it should have. Which is why when she woke up two days later in a hospital, she was more than surprised to see her sister, Jenny, by her side, telling her that they had managed to get to her before she completely bleed out.

He didn't leave her.

“They said this guy brought you to them when they were halfway down the hill. _Ichabod Crane_ or something. You know him?” Jenny asked, quirking a brow at her.

And at first Abbie wanted to say no. She had spent less than two hours with the man, how could she say she knew him? But after she thought about it, she remembered. Everything he told her about his life, his job, and his hobbies. Even his stupid British tea. She remembered it all.

So after a few seconds, Abbie answered, “Yeah. I do.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Abbie was well enough to go back to the station under the condition that she stay at the office doing paperwork, and was banned from any active duty until she was fully recovered.

The minute she got to her desk, she spotted something. Among the cards and flowers piled on the table, a small white envelop caught her eye. She picked it up, opened it, and pulled a tiny sealed packet from its insides. Abbie held the pouch of tea in her hand and couldn't help but smile at the seven words written on the paper.

_I’d still like to prove you wrong._

_-I.C._


End file.
